by David Marcum
As for the case of Baron Maupertuis and his colossal scheme, it remains open as “The Giant Rat of Sumatra”, the “rat” in question being ratite, the type of bird to which the Aepyornix, the Ostrich, the Emu, the Rhea, the Moa, and any number of undiscovered species belong.
The Adventure of Vanaprastha
by Hugh Ashton
The relationship between Sherlock Holmes and the supernatural would appear to have been one of mutual disdain. With his firm belief in reason and logic as the dominant feature that distinguishes the human race from other animals, the doings of “ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night” held little interest for him.
Likewise, those aspects of the world that are more than are dreamed of in our philosophy seemed to give him a wide berth. While others might discuss their experiences of having established communication with their deceased loved ones, or recount terrifying tales of rocking tables and flying crockery, untouched by human hand, no events of this nature ever seemed to come near to Sherlock Holmes.
“The affairs of human beings are complex enough, Watson,” he remarked to me once, “and the world of experimental science still holds enough mysteries without adding the addled hallucinations of the feeble-minded to the list.”
“But surely,” I replied, pointing to the article in The Morning Post that announced the arrival in England of a famous “medium” which had sparked the discussion, “Sir William Keighley is a well-known scientist, indeed, a member of the Royal Society, and he defends the effects produced by Signora Galliani as being genuine.”
Holmes snorted. “Sir William is a fool,” he retorted. “Eminent he may be in his chosen fields of light and heat and electricity, but when it comes to exposing the tricks of a conjuror, he is a babe in arms.”
I forbore from making any further comment on the matter, and held my peace. For my part, the Highland blood of my maternal ancestors had provided me, I believed, and continue to believe to this day, with the gift of perceiving those things that are hidden to many others. I have, for example, a very clear recollection of my mother sitting in her favourite arm-chair and conversing with me on the subject of my future career as a doctor. This is hardly remarkable, you may say, but this dialogue occurred some two years after her death. However, were I to mention this, or other similar incidents, to Sherlock Holmes, I have no doubt that he would scoff and dismiss such matters as merely the product of an over-active imagination.
It was with some amusement, therefore, that I anticipated Holmes’s reaction to the somewhat bizarre story being related to us by Inspector Alec MacDonald of Scotland Yard, who had visited us one day.
“By all accounts, it is a strange case, Mr. Holmes,” he confided, leaning forward in his chair, “the like of which I have never seen for myself, and I would be grateful for your help when I visit the scene.” Inspector MacDonald, as always, was sufficiently aware of the level of his own, albeit considerable, abilities to feel no embarrassment at requesting advice and assistance from one who was acknowledged to be the foremost practitioner of his art in Europe.
“Proceed, Inspector,” Holmes answered him, languidly filling his pipe. “There is whisky in that decanter, should you feel it will help you recall the facts of the matter.”
“A wee nip would do no harm,” MacDonald replied with a faint smile, and I hastened to splash a little of his native spirit into the Scotchman’s glass. “The facts as relayed to us at the Yard are clear in my memory,” MacDonald continued, with a slight shiver. “The case concerns a certain Colonel Richard Cardew, formerly of the Westmorland Regiment. He had served with some distinction in India, including some gallant actions in one of the native uprisings in the area of the Northwest Frontier-”
“Your old haunts, Watson,” smiled Holmes.
MacDonald continued. “While serving there, he took a ball in the shoulder and was invalided home. He lived in Eastbourne, alone except for two Indian servants, a cook and a manservant, the latter of which had accompanied him since the time he was in India, and an English housekeeper who did not, however, reside on the premises.
“He appears to have been well liked enough by his neighbours, insofar as he seemed to provoke no quarrels or friction, and though he did not attend any Christian place of worship on a regular basis, he was an occasional contributor to good works. From what I can gather, he worshipped some sort of heathen idol that he had encountered in his service overseas.”
“There were one or two of those in my regiment,” I remarked. “Stout fellows for the most part, though they took little part in Mess activities.”
“Indeed?” MacDonald nodded politely in my direction. “It is the first such case that I have encountered. In any event, the business may now be described in the past tense. Colonel Cardew was found dead in his bed this morning by his manservant, Jayant Singh. The sheets were described as being soaked in blood, and the body was almost drained. The wounds-”
“More than one wound?” interrupted Holmes, who had been puffing away at his pipe without comment up till that time during MacDonald’s recital.
“That, Mr. Holmes, is the horror of it all. The body had been slashed all over. No weapon was visible, and the room was locked, with the key on the inside of the door.”
“The Death of a Thousand Cuts,” I murmured to myself.
“What was that, Watson?” Holmes asked sharply.
“It is an Oriental form of punishment. A gruesome protracted form of execution, reserved for those who have offended the morals of their country.”
MacDonald nodded. “According to the local constabulary, who relayed these facts to the Yard by telephone, so says the cook, Anil Bannerji, for that is the fellow’s name.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? And I suppose there is no chance that it is this Jayant Singh who discovered the body who may have carried out the deed?”
“It is possible, I suppose, but the facts would seem to argue against it. Cardew clearly did not repose a great deal of trust in his Indian servants, though Singh had been in his service for some time - since he had been his batman, in fact. Bannerji is a more recent addition to the household, having arrived some months ago. It was Cardew’s custom each night to lock the two Indians in a small stone shed located in the grounds of the property, and allow them their liberty in the morning, either by unlocking the door himself, or ensuring the housekeeper performed that duty when she arrived each morning.”
“Inhuman!” I exclaimed. “To treat fellow human beings in such a fashion.”
The police inspector nodded in agreement. “It would seem that Cardew was something of a tyrant in his domestic affairs. I believe these poor wretches were kept without money, meaning that even were they able to escape, they would be without the means to travel. In this instance, Mrs. Bryant arrived at the house, and discovered that Cardew was still abed. This was not an unfamiliar circumstance, and she went to the parlour, fully expecting to find an empty decanter and a glass there, as she had done in the past. However, there was no evidence of any such indulgence on the previous night. She then proceeded as usual on these occasions, however, and took the key of the shed from where it was hanging on a hook behind the kitchen door to release the cook and Jayant Singh.”
“But this Jayant Singh, or the other, the cook, could well have escaped the prison in the night and returned himself to captivity,” I pointed out.
MacDonald shook his head. “I trust Mr. Holmes, and you, Doctor, will come to Eastbourne with me,” he said, “and you will then confirm for yourselves what the local police reported to us, that such a thing would not be possible.”
“The cook,” broke in Holmes. “What can you tell us of him?”
“Oh, Anil Bannerji is reported as being a puny little shrimp of a man,” laughed MacDonald. “The idea of his being a murderer is patently absurd. Even so, both he and
Singh are now being held in custody.”
“Then we must look for a housebreaker who is prepared to kill in pursuit of his loot,” I said.
Once more MacDonald shook his head. “According to Mrs. Bryant, nothing is missing, and there is no sign of any disturbance.”
“From the little I know of this torment,” I said, “it is excruciatingly painful. Surely the poor man’s cries must have been heard by others?”
“I have yet to visit the place,” MacDonald said to us, “but according to the local constabulary, the bungalow is somewhat set apart from others, at the end of a long drive, and is surrounded by a tall yew hedge, which would tend to muffle any sounds.”
“It appears to me as though this could be an intriguing puzzle which should afford us some gratification in the solving,” Holmes commented.
“I was rather hoping you would say something along those lines,” smiled MacDonald. “I may take it that you would not be averse to accompanying me to Eastbourne?”
“Not in the least,” said Holmes. “I would positively welcome a break from the confines of the metropolis. May I assume that you intend starting immediately? If that is the case, pray allow me a few minutes to prepare myself for the journey.”
“Naturally,” replied the police agent.
In a very short space of time, we were on the train to Eastbourne, Holmes audibly sniffing the air like a bloodhound on the trail of its quarry. It was a habit I had noticed in the past when he was engaged on a case, and on the occasions when I had brought it to his attention, he claimed to be unaware of his action.
“Though I had far sooner you had not remarked on it,” he had told me. However, Sherlock Holmes was in many ways one of the least self-conscious of men, and this habit of his almost certainly passed unnoticed, save by those, such as myself, who knew him well.
On arrival at Vanaprastha, for such was the name of the late Colonel Cardew’s residence, we were greeted by Inspector Jowett of the local constabulary.
“This one’s a bit beyond us, sir,” he said to MacDonald, after the introductions had been made, “and we’ve left everything very much as we found it. And we’ve heard of you, sir,” as he turned to Sherlock Holmes, “and very glad indeed we are to have you with us.”
“Would it be possible to see the room where the body was discovered?” Holmes enquired.
“In good time, sir, if you don’t mind. We have the two Indian servants in custody, and I would be obliged if you would ask them some questions now. I’ve tried to get straight answers out of the pair of them, and all I can get is a load of Oriental superstition that makes no sense from the one of them, and nothing useful out of the other. We’ve set up in Cardew’s study, so if you could follow me there, please, gentlemen, I would be grateful.”
“And the housekeeper?” Holmes asked.
The police inspector laughed. “It’s the other way round with that one, sir,” he called over his shoulder as we moved along the passageway. “The problem with her is getting her to stop talking.”
Holmes smiled. “We’ll take the Indians first, then. Watson,” he remarked, turning to me, “this is your chance to shine.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Indeed so. I take it you still remember some words of your Hindustani, and when these gentlemen find themselves addressed in their own language, we will find them much more receptive to our questions.”
“Well now, that’s a canny wee trick,” exclaimed MacDonald.
For my part, I was conscious of the fact that my knowledge of this Indian language, never profound at the best of times, had almost evaporated from my memory, but I determined to do my best.
Our first subject for interview was the Sikh, Jayant Singh. He was heavily bearded, and dressed in the style demanded by his religion that I remembered from my time in India, with a dark blue turban and a metal bracelet. His scowl was ferocious as he faced us across the table.
“Namaste,” I greeted him, placing the palms of my hands together and bowing slightly.
His swarthy face relaxed a little as he recognised the word, and he returned my greeting.
In my half-forgotten Hindustani, I explained Holmes’s identity and reputation, and attempted to make it clear that all we required from Jayant Singh was the truth of the matter regarding his late master. I added that my command of his language was less than perfect, and if possible, we should conduct the business in English.
“Certainly,” he answered in English, a smile lighting his face. “Though my English may be better than your Hindustani, Doctor, it is not perfect, so I hope that you will be forgiving me for any mistakes that I may be making.”
Both Holmes and I assured him of this, and Holmes proceeded with his questions.
“When did you last see your master alive?” he asked.
“At eight last night. He locked the door of the small house where I and the cook, Bannerji, sleep.” He betrayed no visible resentment at having been confined as a prisoner by his late employer.
“And then?”
“I slept,” he replied simply. “I am sleeping when it is night. I wake when it is light.”
“And you heard nothing in the night?”
The Indian shook his turbaned head. “I heard nothing. I slept, I am telling you.”
“And in the morning?”
“Mrs. Bryant unlocked the door to allow Bannerji and me to leave our sleeping place and enter the house.”
“Was this usual? That the housekeeper and not your master unlocked the door?”
“Several times in a month. More often at the time of the full moon, when Colonel Cardew had drunk too much on the previous evening, and was unable to rise.” He shook his head in what appeared to be sorrow.
“It was a full moon last night,” Jowett reminded us.
“And yet Inspector MacDonald told us that according to you, there was no evidence of Cardew’s having consumed alcohol to excess last night.”
The Indian shook his head. “That is being the case,” he told us. “There was no glass or bottle in the sahib’s sleeping room, or in any other room.”
“And when you opened the door to Colonel Cardew’s room, what did you see?”
“I did not open the door.”
“I was told that you discovered the body.”
Again he shook his head. “You are most correct in what you believe, sir.”
“Then how was the door opened?” I asked the Indian.
“It was locked, and it was not my place to open it.”
Holmes appeared somewhat exasperated by this answer. “Then who was it who opened the door?”
“The local constable,” Jowett told us. “According to Mrs. Bryant, there are two keys to this lock. One of them was in the lock on the inside of the door, and she was unable to locate the other in its usual place when Singh here called to her that he was unable to unlock the door. After a number of fruitless attempts by Bryant, Singh, and Bannerji to rouse Cardew, Singh went to the police station and called the constable on duty to investigate. It was he who forced open the door.”
“That is being absolutely correct, sir,” said Singh, shaking his head.
“Well, I’m happy to have you confirm it at last,” said Jowett, sighing. “Mr. Holmes, are there any further questions you wish to ask this man?”
“None at present,” Holmes answered him. “Thank you, Mr. Singh, for your help.” He bowed slightly towards the Indian, and the courtesy was returned.
“Inspector?” asked Jowett, turning to MacDonald. “Do you have anything further to ask?”
“Like Mr. Holmes, I have nothing I wish to add at this point.”
“Off with you, then, my lad,” Jowett addressed the Indian.
“I am free, sir?”
“At present, yes. But I must ask you not
to leave the house until I give you leave. Ask Constable Hawker to send Bannerji in here, will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
When he had left, Jowett spoke. “A capital idea of yours to break the ice with Doctor Watson here, Mr. Holmes. Many thanks to you both for your assistance.”
“I do not see that we are much further forward, though,” grumbled MacDonald. “It seems that all we have is confirmation of Mrs. Bryant’s word on the matter. And the two of them could be in cahoots.”
Jowett laughed. “The idea of those two getting together is somewhat absurd, sir, as you will discover when you meet Mrs. Bryant.”
MacDonald started to speak, but he was prevented by the entrance of the cook, Bannerji, who had been rightly described as a shrimp of a man. He was darker in appearance, and smaller and slighter in stature, than his compatriot, and positively cringed as he approached.
“May I sit, please?” he asked us in English. I noticed the tremor of his hands, and the somewhat livid cast to his face, which bespoke a somewhat agitated state of mind. Jowett wordlessly motioned towards a chair, and the Indian gratefully took his seat.
Holmes, following a nod from the two police agents, opened the questioning. “What meal did you serve your master last night?” he asked, in a gentle tone.
“Why, a curry made with vegetables, as usual,” answered the cook, in a low but pleasing tone of voice.
“As usual?” enquired Holmes.
“Why, yes. Colonel Cardew would never eat the flesh of once-living things, since he began to follow my Way of Truth.”
Holmes shrugged silently, but I observed Jowett and MacDonald exchange a glance.
“And what did you and Singh eat that evening?”
“We took our meal in the kitchen, and it was the same as I served to the Colonel. This was the usual practice. The Colonel had told me that he had found English food to be bland and tasteless since his return from India. Accordingly, he preferred to eat the dishes of my country, and when I suggested to him that I should prepare a larger quantity of his meals for consumption by Singh and myself, he voiced no objection.”